Our pals across the pond have thwarted another nasty plot. I now find out they (Terrorist Bastids) were planning to use their own baby as a cover to use the little tyke's bottle as the explosive. Which leads to the point of my rant for the day:
I hate's me a terrorist.
 Hezbollah sets up a rocket launcher on the roof of a building, packed it with disabled women and children so they could employ their weapon of world concern after it was leveled. To use my own concern for the innocent as a weapon against me is something I find most detestable.
This, and the baby bottle incident have led me to the following conclusion:
They have regressed back below the point of humanity.
The big question is what to do.
A lot of bandwidth and ink have been used to posit the importance of moral high ground. But that to me now seems an empty principle. To try to retain this moral high ground while fighting a war against an asemetrical force that views its own death with relish and content is to give credence to the thought that our own soldier's lives are somehow on an equal footing as theirs. I submit that they are not.
A 'man' who would use a woman as a shield has no honor.
A 'man' who would use a child as a shield has no soul.
People who would do such things are not people anymore and should be gotten rid of.
But do we harden our hearts to the deaths of their innocents to save ours?
Well, that is a stickler. But I answer in this fashion:
My girlfriend has made a career out of rescuing dogs. She works night and day to find homes for the abandoned and abused. But even if she were to clone herself a thousand times, live on a hundred thousand acre ranch where the dogs were stacked twenty feet high, spay and neuter on an industrial scale she would still not save every one. But she does what she can.
Does that mean that she willfully condemns every dog not in her reach to death and suffering?
No.
She can't save every one, but she will save as many as she can.
The moral high ground in her story would be to not eat, sleep, or be otherwise occupied in this struggle. But that is impossible because she would fall down and die, and all the animals would have gained is a short respite while she worked herself to death.
I view the fight against islamic conquest (because chillun's that's exactly what it is) and those who wage it in the same fashion. Yeah, I might save a whole pile of innocent women and children if I refrain from bombing the crap out of countries that are infested with the likes of hezbollah. But how many more will be put to the sword on the way to the world caliphate?
A lot more than would be killed if we carpet bombed the entire middle east.
Would all hostilities cease if they owned the entire world?
Nope. These guys will not be satisfied. If aliens landed they would be after them.
They care nothing for their own kind. I think the baby bottle thing proves my point.
We care for ours. We even care about people we don't know. That's why terrorism works.
If the terrorists want death that's exactly what we should give them...in spades.
Why do they hate us?
Don't care.
Did we do something to make them hate us?
Don't care. They already had their reason when they wrote the koran.
What I do care about is ridding the earth of their kind.
Before any ladies' blouses go off and cry about Lazlo wanting to kill all muslims; I don't.
It's the conquest and 'getting folks killed by setting up rocket launchers on their roofs, and bringing your own baby on a plane as a disguise so you can blow it up' part I want to stop.
Before any debate springs up about who owned what chunk of the planet first:
Dig up a rock. Under it you will find germs. Hand them the deed to your house because they were here first. Anything later than that is suspect and subjective reasoning.
This next part is figurative:
If a person comes down my street with a sword in one hand and a book in the other saying all those who don't read and agree with that book will get killed; I will shoot that person.
I don't care if the book is the Bible, koran, or Mark Twain's Adventures of Puddin'head Wilson.

Ok, today I am writing about the emasculation of men in this country (Just in case you haven't read me before; I am pretty sarcastic all the time, which is why dogs like me).
On to the emasculation of men. The media, and manufacturers of stuff have done us wrong.
It is systemic, insidious, evil, and  will lead to the downfall of this country. Yeah.
My first example is my own favorite TV show of all time: Gilligan's Island. Ok, Gilligan was a goofball, so were the Skipper and Mr. Howell, but the Professor? He could make a radio out of coconuts for cryin' out loud. Why did he have to be a doorknob? Maryanne and Ginger pretty much ran things on the island.
Next, look at Darren on bewitched, OMG! He and every other man on that show were the biggest wimps in history. When they got mad they jammed tranquilizers into their pieholes like I used to do with Pez. If I were Darren I would have had Samantha cranking out the Benjimans on an industrial scale, and that Mother-in-law would have been running my shipping empire.
Then take old man Brady; he went mod because his whole family went mod. His brand of fathering reached it's masculine peak when he grounded Peter for busting Marsha in the nose with a football.
Don't even get me started on 'I dream of Jeanni.' They made her cover up her belly button which is something I will never forgive, ever.
The neutering of men became cemented as national policy with that TV show 'Three's Company' where John Ritter played an even bigger sissy than that guy with the mirrored piano. Not only did he live with two total babes and didn't chase them around, but he pretended to be gay so he could live in the apartment; something I will never figure out if I live to be a million. Message: "Man of the future will amuse us with his ability to do absolutely nothing right, and we shall reward him for his androgeny."
Now don't get me wrong, I think it's good (and necessary) to be pals with women without the sexual game in operation, but to make out (no pun) like its preferable to be a wimpy noof all the time is where I draw the line.
I think there's a feminist cabal deep in a cave somewhere, commiting hideously clever social experiments with the mass media and product design. It's all designed to make men a subserviant class whose only job will be to fix stuff in the future; who will always take the trash out on time, and never, ever have an independant thought that isn't pre-approved.
Look at every food, product, and medicine commercial ever written since 1971. The man plays a chagrined, goofy oaf. "I can talk about my prostate problems now 'cause she brought it up," Even the Indian cried when he saw trash on the road. I'm sorry but this is just wrong.
Now it's gone over the top and I am starting to get mad.
In the bag of crap they give you when you buy a weed wacker is a set of safety goggles. If I want to get my eye poked out and wear an eyepatch and look cool, don't you think that's my business?
They have designed lawnmowers now so that you can't even start 'em without being behind them and ten feet away from the blades, and guards so you can't shoot out a tennis ball out with any velocity at all.
Try driving more than fifty feet in a new car without your seat belt. The bonging sound will make you crazy and tear out your hair.
AND you're supposed to wear a helmet while riding a bike. An iron jockstrap I can see, but a helmet? What's the fun of jumping stuff if you can't even risk a decent scab in the world?
Drive around and try to find a treehouse. I dare you. Johnny might break an arm, and even then they make casts so you can't even draw stuff on them.
But I discovered the biggest outrage of all time while getting yelled at about the mess I make in the kitchen all the time. I go to pour myself a slug of joe and I get coffee all over the counter. I wipe it up with my shirttail but I inevitably miss some causing my girlfriend to go into hysterics.
That's when I uncovered the evil of Sissy Pour.
When you get done flagging this blog as offensive go look at your coffee pot. See the way the spout is shaped? It is DESIGNED to spill coffee all over the place if you pour in a manly fashion. You HAVE to pour like you're at a tea party with lots of stuffed animals. Like I got time to hang around waiting for the contenents to drift while I pour myself a cup of joe! I grew up with an old blue enamel coffee pot that you could slosh out a quart of mud pronto.
There used to be sense in the world.
So I went out on an investigative prowl. Every coffee maker I could find that's been made since the sixties cleverly incorporated this fiendish scheme. They think I don't notice. But I see through them, and I'm not going quietly. They think I don't remember that about that same time they took Rip Cord off the air.
Coincidence? I think not!
 

Ok, not being the coldest beer in the fridge I have had a hard time figuring out the way to get to my own dang blog. But watching for others to show me the way has paid off and now I can swing for the fences.

My post is about this baloney Islam hands the poor saps they want to go out and kill themselves whilst killing infidels.
I am talking about the 72 Virgins supposedly awaiting martyrs in paradise.
First. Why seventy two? Is that a mystic number? Is 72 per terrorist a figure based on projections of the number of women in toto expected to get into heaven? Is that figure based on the projected expectations of martyrs martyring themselves at the same time? Questions of supply and demand come up for me. Does allah schedule train wrecks with boatloads of virgins on them to meet demand? What happens if demand is not met? I wonder if allah issues IOU's.
"Hey man, you're gonna have to trust me for a while. I'm working up a plague but things haven't panned out just yet. But I got my best people working on it, don' choo worry."
The number 72 sounds suspicious to me. I cast a jaundiced eye upon it.
It makes me think of tribes in Borneo who can count up to about fifty, then everything above that is ' a whole boatload'.  Now I think about it, I'm sure that must be it.
I think 72 is a number that rolls off the tongue with lots of satisfying syllables and construes a figure that most arabs of the day viewed with the awe that hillbillys view neon light. It may sound melodious in aribic. Perhaps it rhymes with something, I don't know, but that's where I'm leaving it.
Next, human nature is nothing if not predictable. Look at all the lottery winners who are broke five years after they win it big. The temptation to splurge is uncontrollable. Even a reserved and studious suicide bomber on his first day in heaven would probably want to sample the wares. It is paradise and all. The boorish sort will probably use up 3 or 4 a day until he starts to see the end of the line coming up fast. Then it's rationing for all eternity. "I'm sorry my trinket, but a schedule is a schedule, and you're slated for a billion years from now, and that's that."
But the big elephant in the room is the number 72. That's not even a 90 day supply at only one a day. We're talking eternity here. I would imagine that when paradise central explains the meaning of eternity to our young bomber friend he's going to look at the paltry sum of virgins he has left and say: "Hey wait a minute, I blew myself up and all. Can I get an advance on my next life? I was planning on blowing myself up then, too."
Next is the notion of scribes and the possibility of grammatical errors. Maybe the guy who had to write it down for what's his name (I heard he hadn't mastered his 3 R's) was sitting out in the sun and was all sweaty. One single drop off his nose that goes unnoticed, and the next scribe is like; "WTF? It's all blurry and crap." He goes to his boss who has other things on his mind. "Look, just go with your gut. Now get out of here, can't you see I've got pillaging and subjugation going on around here? And close the door,  you born in a manger?"
So on down through history this error goes unmolested, and our hapless young bomber friend shows up in paradise and is directed to his wheelbarrow full of sturgeons.
Then again I'm writing this in English. I don't know what virgin sounds like in arabic.
It could very well rhyme with pumpkin for all I know.

Fury on the Runway
Haven't seen the film, probably won't. But..
For the feminists that think that the role of Mother, and homekeeper amount to oppression and a general waste of intelligence; do these things:
1. Buy a time machine (they're cheap nowadays), and go back to oh, say 1850.
2. Get out of the 'civilized' world of New Yawk and St Looie and get yourself out on the prairie.
3. Spend ONE DAY living the life of an average pioneer woman. This means making edible food out raw materials, making fire, washing clothes without pushing buttons, doctoring humans and animals, sewing, managing play dates with local Tribes, educating little humans, and all the other stuff you can imagine, while the whiskery lout is out digging wells, plowing, building stuff, chasing sullen farm animals around and getting dirty.
Then try it all in 1950 (some buttons included, some animals removed), then come back and tell me that it was not the most demanding, backbreaking, mind numbingly Hard day you ever spent.
Then you will surely attest that without the sheer intelligence, strength, fortitude, and willpower of the little wife on the prairie that we poor men would not only have never left Europe, but that we would never made it out of the  Ergaster stage, and a life of scratching oneself in caves would still be the norm.